


Just off Trafalgar Square

by HannibabestheCannibabes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drinking, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bar, History References, Homophobia, Karaoke, London, Love Confessions, M/M, Some Fluff, aziraphale is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannibabestheCannibabes/pseuds/HannibabestheCannibabes
Summary: Having survived the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and almost certain death at the hands of both Heaven and Hell, an angel and a demon decide they deserve a well-deserved night out, complete of course with London's best gay bar and almost compulsory karaoke.The night may end very differently however to how either Crowley or Aziraphale expect...





	1. Just off Trafalgar Square

**Just Off Trafalgar Square**

‘When was the last time you let your hair down?’

Aziraphale looked up from the yellowed pages of manuscript currently held beneath his fingers with a start. ‘I’m sorry?’

Crowley peered over the tops of his glasses. ‘When was the last time you let your hair down? As in, really let it down? When was it?’

‘My hair down? My hair has always been this length...I cut it regularly...I’m sorry, my dear, I’m confused by the question. What do you want to know about my hair?’

 ‘No. Not your _hair_ hair.’ His frustration came out in a partial growl. ‘It’s a saying. Honestly, how have you actually existed on this ridiculous planet and never heard any of these sayings?’

 ‘I suppose I kept to a certain company.’ The angel shrugged, yet not without a bashful smile. Of course he had escaped such absurd sayings in his years, and whilst they now sometimes could cause confusion (he’d had to reread scripture to find the warnings of the plagues of cats and dogs threatening to fall from the sky), he believed he had kept a certain eloquence through his ignorance. Crowley respectfully disagreed. ‘So, what about hair would you like to know?’

 ‘Not actual hair at all. I’m asking you when the last time you got absolutely shitfaced was.’

 ‘Oh goodness.’

 ‘Well, rather the opposite actually.’ The demon smirked, only to be met by a fierce scowl from his companion. ‘Fine, it doesn’t actually have to be shitfaced. Just when was the last time you had fun? And no.’ He held up a finger as Aziraphale went to speak. ‘I do not mean dinner at the Ritz. Or reading a nice book. I mean something _actually_ fun.’

 ‘You enjoy our dinners.’ The angel pouted, an expression usually enough to cause the hardest, or most demonic, of hearts to soften. Crowley remained unmoved. ‘Fine. I suppose I had a pretty exciting time in the 1880s. There were some superb gentlemen’s clubs at the time.’

 ‘The 1880s? You lived through the 20th Century without once _having fun_?’ 

 ‘I just found it all a bit... _murdery_.’

 ‘Well yes, suppose that’s why I enjoyed it so much.’ The demon shrugged, removing his glasses to show wide yellow eyes. ‘Alright, angel, we’ve survived Armageddon, been hunted by our own sides, and I think we deserve a bloody good night to have fun.’

 ‘Well, put like that…’

 They made their plans. Crowley insisted he knew the perfect place (‘just off Trafalgar Square, you’d love it’) and insisted bizarrely on a Thursday (‘far quieter, whilst we might have been willing to risk our necks for them, you don’t want to be surrounded by humans on a Friday night’) and Aziraphale found himself inwardly working out just how much time that would give him to practice his gavotte. 

* * *

 

 He supposed the name was ironic. Aziraphale squinted at it as he stood waiting outside for the familiar swagger of his demonic counterpart. He had expected something different to the bar he was met with. He had expected something, well something a bit more... _Crowley_. This looked practically cosy, so far from the absurdly minimalist yet mindboggingly expensive furnishings of any of his usual suggestions.

 ‘You made it then, angel.’ Indeed Crowley did swagger, a swagger so laid back in its dramatics it was almost a strut, up to the angel, who greeted him with a wide beam. He gave him a quick look up and down, taking in the clothes only three quarters of a century out of date. ‘And you dressed up.’

 ‘I felt I should look the part.’

 ‘The part of a…?’

 ‘Well, of a usual bar-goer, I suppose. I even chose one of my more swish ties.’

 Yes, the demon had noticed. It seemed to glare at him with non-existent eyes, smugly sat on the angel’s chest. ‘Smashing.’

 It took Aziraphale three drinks, with his fourth in hand (sadly none of them being the umbrellaed cocktails he preferred when out at bars, instead he had let the demon chose and regretted the first immensely when it burnt his throat as he swallowed although luckily a few more sips and that feeling passed quickly), to realise the obvious. ‘Have you brought me to a gay bar, Crowley?’

 If Crowley had been a betting man (which, contrary to popular opinion, demons tended not to be, looking largely untrustworthy to the average eye and thus they found it difficult often to get anyone to trust them to honour such deals), he would have lost his own bet with himself, for he was certain the angel would remain unaware of the nature of the establishment he had brought him to. ‘Yes, you could call it a gay bar.’

 ‘What else could I call it?’

 ‘Well, I imagine its name. Any problems with you, angel?’

 This is the time to highlight that this bar, whilst a gay bar and reasonably close to Soho, the historically seedy underbelly of England’s fine capital, was not what the average person would imagine. The bar was wood-panelling with tables set out surrounded by groups of people of a variety of genders, drinking and talking about any number of subjects and interests. The bouncers were small and friendly, smiling even as Aziraphale had shook their hands upon entry. One television was even showing the football in the background (admittedly with nobody paying attention). It was small and quiet and almost quaint.

 ‘No.’ Aziraphale smiled as he looked around. ‘I rather like it. Reminds me of the gentlemen’s clubs of the 1880s again.’

 ‘Your bloody 1880s.’ Crowley took a long swig. ‘Go on then, what was so great about those clubs of yours?’

 ‘You’ve never been to a gentlemen's club?’

 ‘Oh, I’ve been to a number of gentlemen's clubs, but of a rather different nature to yours.’

 ‘They were just rather lovely. Very friendly. So many different people. I met Oscar Wilde there once.’

 ‘What a coincidence. I met him at one of my clubs too.’

 ‘Poor chap. I did try to warn him.’ His smile faltered slightly at the memory. ‘Still, I did rather enjoy them as a whole.’

 ‘And the whole homosexual thing didn’t bother you?’ Crowley asked, lowering his glasses slightly to meet the angel’s eyes. At the sudden look of hurt on the man’s face, he shrugged. ‘I just wasn’t sure. You can never tell with angels. I saw Sodom and Gomorrah. So much smiting.’

 ‘Ah, but that was a slight misunderstanding…’

 ‘Not how the humans saw it.’ The demon drained the rest of his glass and pushed it to the side. ‘Now miracle your way to the bar and get me a couple more.’

 ‘Get a couple more you mean? One of us each?’

 Crowley frowned. ‘I said what I mean. Get yourself what you want.’

 

* * *

 

He had brought himself the same, and both had finished their first (technically fifth) and were beginning to slur. Nothing obscene, nothing to suggest drunkenness beyond that of all those sat within the vicinity, but enough for both to have to lean a touch closer, if just to translate the alcohol fuelled garblings of the other.

 ‘So your gentlemen’s club,’ Crowley started, waving his drink around slightly, enough to cause small splatters of ambered liquid to drip onto the table. ‘Did you ever…?’ He raised his eyebrows, the universal and unmistakable sign of suggestion, and was met with the completely blank stare of his companion.

 ‘Did I what?’

 ‘Did you...well, did you give it a go?’

 ‘Give it a go?’

 He rolled his eyes. ‘Sex. Did you have sex? In your gentlemen’s club surrounded by, what I can only assume, was a variety of incredibly homosexual Victorian men, did you have sex? Suppose, actually, could widen the question. Did you ever at all?’

 ‘What? Have…? No. No. Certainly not.’ He was shaking his head quite vigorously, slightly too vigorously for he ended up feeling slightly (and only partially alcohol induced) dizzy. ‘No, I certainly have never had...that.’ Met with the slightly offended shrug of the demon ( _honestly, why so offended?)_ , he felt himself backpedaling. ‘Not that I’m against...intercourse at all. It’s natural and a rather lovely expression of love and romantic feeling. And there is nothing wrong with humanity, of course. But to imagine such intercourse with a human, that proximity and all that touch, it just makes me feel a bit…’

 ‘Revolted?’

 ‘Queasy,’ Aziraphale corrected, and the demon smiled, a little smugly actually, for reasons unknown to the angel. ‘I’m assuming you have?’

 ‘Nope. Never.’

‘But, you’re a demon.’ He asked in surprise.  ‘Isn’t all that lust and temptation stuff right up your...well isn’t it really what you do?’

 ‘Ah, I’m fond of the old temptation stuff, admittedly. And there is nothing more fun than spreading a bit of lust, especially amongst your more...interesting communities. But it’s not for me. I don’t particularly want a human that close for so long. The tube is bad enough.’ He shrugged, attempting and failing to seem as nonchalant as he could manage, but found himself unnerved by the slightly joyous smile on the angel’s face. _Far too comfortable_. ‘But you angels are all sexless anyway right. Could you even...well, do you have all the parts you’d need?’ He gestured subtly with his finger and watched Aziraphale blush a deep pink.

 ‘I don’t see the relevance of that question.’

 ‘Just old hellish curiosity really. Come on, then, are you all _anatomically correct_?’

 ‘I certainly am.’ The angel bristled. ‘And yourself?’

 ‘Ah, that’s not relevant.’

 ‘You started all this.’

 ‘That’s my job. I’m a demon. I exist to spread slight uncomfortable feeling and make people squirm their way through awkward questions.’ He was met only with silence at his protest. ‘Fine. Yes. Us demons get far less choice than your lot anyway. Good enough?’

 ‘Good enough.’ He was smiling again now, wider than perhaps such conversation should have made him, and the demon groaned.

 ‘Right, go grab a couple more. I didn’t bring you here to sit around and talk... _this_. I need to show you my one true masterpiece. I need to show you downstairs.’


	2. Hell is Darker and Far Less Sparkly

**Hell is Darker and Far Less Sparkly**

If upstairs was the opposite of what he had anticipated from both a gay bar in Central London, and the business he expected a demon such as Crowley to frequent, then downstairs was causing him to reassess his parametres of judgement. For downstairs was an entirely different bar indeed, one with pink sequins and cheap mirrored balls, a floor already so sticky that Aziraphale feared for the soles of his shoes, and a large number of sweating humans clustered in front of a small stage.

‘I don’t understand…’

‘Just keep walking, angel.’ Crowley seemed surprisingly unsurprised by his surroundings ( _ well naturally, he suggested such an establishment _ ), barely as much as a glance around the crowd as they walked together across the floor to two empty seats in the corner. He gestured wordlessly and his companion sat with another confused glance. ‘Welcome to Hell.’

‘This is what Hell looks like...I shouldn’t be here. Why have you brought me here? You know only too well that could happen if…’ Something suddenly seemed to click in his mind, and he nodded with a smile smile. ‘Ah, you’re joking. Of course.’

‘Of course.’ He seemed to swing his lean body onto the bar stool beside his companion, throwing back both arms to rest against the ledge behind them. ‘Hell looks nothing like this. Far darker. Far less...sparkly. But this would definitely be part of my redesign, if given the chance.’

‘It just seems to be people enjoying themselves. Nothing very hellish at all.’  

‘Yes, but we’re early. Tonight, you are going to be introduced to possibly my greatest , and most evil, creation. And you will love every second of it.’

‘I certainly will not.’

‘I can guarantee it.’ Crowley shifted forwards, his face mere inches from Aziraphale’s as he grinned. ‘Karaoke.’

‘Kar-a-oke?’ 

‘Karaoke. The most wicked creation to have ever been thrust upon mankind. Makes the machine gun look like a teddy bear.’ He had to admit it had been a tough sell Downstairs at the time. 1971 and all anyone was going on about was Vietnam ( _ had he started that? Probably not. Had he taken the credit however? Most likely _ ). All minds had been changed when he insisted on showing some test subjects. And the global possibilities of such a creation? He could honestly have been knighted then and there (if of course he hadn’t desperately refused and insisted on sleeping for a week to avoid any possible attempts at communication). ‘Karaoke is quite simply the most evil creation mankind has ever seen.’

‘What is it?’

Whilst it wasn’t easy to forget that Aziraphale’s cultural references ended in the 1950s, Crowley made the mistake of doing so semi-regularly. ‘It’s a machine for singing.’

‘Oh. Ohhh.’ Aziraphale followed the direction of Crowley’s outstretched finger to the small set-up on the stage, and he chuckled. ‘That just sounds fun. How can anything that sounds so fun be honestly so evil?’

‘Well, this is where the trap is set.’ He had somehow managed to snake a hand around the angel’s back and it rested now on his shoulder, pulling him closer to the demon. Aziraphale hardly minded, he’d been far more uncomfortable with some of the glances over at his friend, and the bubbling feeling it had caused in his stomach. They’d looked away once he was closer to Crowley. ‘Are you listening? I’m explaining genius to you. Hellish genius, mind you, but genius nonetheless.’

‘No. I mean, yes. Of course.’ A pause as his brain caught up with his mouth. ‘Oh no, I don’t want to hear about hellish genius.’

‘It’s nothing  _ Satanic _ if that helps.’

A small frown. ‘Fine.’

He was met with a smile possibly, surprisingly, grateful. ‘Karaoke is the perfect spread of evil. Has to be, I designed it. It took me a bloody long time to get right, mind you. But it spreads misery amongst everyone within, at least, a 100m vicinity. First you have the singer, obviously utterly humiliated when stood on stage, singing away, to the complete disgust of the crowd. Genius. Then you have anyone who knows the singer, so much second-hand embarrassment, it would almost hurt. And finally the audience, forced to listen and endure as a stranger murders their absolute favourite song on stage and the whole room ends up stood there, wishing the ground would open and swallow them up. Which we Downstairs accept as a pledge, by the way.’

‘But what happens when somebody is good? Somebody must be good occasionally?’

‘Of course. Planned for that too. Sends shockwaves of envy and pride throughout the room. Some of the more classic sins.’ He smiled lazily. ‘Tell me you’re impressed.’

‘But nobody is actually hurt in all this?’

Aziraphale should have felt lucky for the sunglasses hiding from him the heavy roll of yellow slitted eyes. ‘No. No-one is  _ actually  _ hurt.’

‘Then I suppose I can be…’ He swallowed, before forcing a smile. ‘Impressed.’

* * *

He was far less impressed once the karaoke machine was actually set up and running. He had been to Hell once, wearing Crowley’s body, and seen some of the tortures threatened to the poor lost souls there. However, none quite compared to the torturous drones that humans seemed to enjoy inflicting on each other. They sang, poorly yet proudly, song after song of what could only be described as melodic noise. Crowley had insisted on wine to watch the karaoke, claiming he had invented it whilst drunk on red wine, and so red wine must be the only way to make it tolerable. Aziraphale appreciated the drink, but the theory was entirely incorrect. 

His fourth glass in and the demon had insisted himself on taking the stage. He held the microphone in one hand, a comfortable distance from his mouth given how much spit he’d seen transfer to it, his glass in the other, wine sloshing onto the wooden floor with every movement. He sang, or at least Aziraphale thought he sang, as any demon does which is  _ not very well _ . At his best guess, Aziraphale thought Crowley knew two fifths of the actual words, the rest he either made up as he sang, or he just swore, using increasingly imaginative creations of his own devising. Yet, just as with all of the others before him, the crowd continued to watch. They even cheered at points, and some of the men stared up at him with a look in their eyes that caused the angel’s throat to constrict slightly, and his fingertips to tingle. 

‘Oi, angel.’ The song had finished and, again, he found himself having been caught not listening, mindlessly drinking as the tightness of his chest released. He glanced up at the stage, where Crowley has gesturing manically. ‘Get up here.’

‘Oh no. No. I couldn’t possibly…’

‘Get up here or I’ll fetch you myself.’

‘It’s all be-bop, I hardly know any…’

He had a microphone in his own hand, shaking suddenly which was perfectly out of the ordinary, before he could complete his sentence. In front of him, he knew there was a crowd, yet bright lights seemed to dim them until he could convince them that he was alone, with only Crowley at his side.

‘Now, I know you don’t know a thing.’ The demon was whispering lowly into his ear, a gravelly purr that caused an unforeseen shiver down the angel’s spine. ‘I tried something you might recognise. Never mention this now to another soul.’

The angel would have pointed to the crowd before them, all stood in anticipation, and all of whom would definitely remember whatever was about to happen on the stage, but the music started. And he found himself smiling. 

If there was one thing Crowley had expected Azirapphale to be able to do, it was sing. That was what angels did, right? All of the celestial harmonies. Not to mention that bloody  _ Sound of Music _ obsession. They must have lessons. Every Friday maybe, whilst the demons have their weekly therapy sessions, talk about all of the terrible things they’d had to witness humans doing to each other. And yet, whatever attempt Aziraphale was making, what was coming out of his mouth was not a noise that could be classed in any way as song. Crowley knew he couldn’t sing, but his companion was of a very different standard indeed. Still the angel was wearing that blasted beaming smile on his face, as if he couldn’t care about whatever sound he was happening to make, and it was the blasted beaming smile that caused Crowley’s lips to curl as hard as he inwardly told them to stay perfectly straight and disinterested. And perhaps it was all this thinking to himself that meant what happened next took him totally by surprise…

For the next thing he knew, he had Aziraphale in his arms and his lips against his own, kissing him in front of every human in the room.


	3. Exactly What Happened

**Exactly what happened**

What exactly had just happened? Well, to answer that, it is vital to recognise that there were two beings involved (discounting of course the 30+ people watching from the crowded floor and the three members of bar staff who had stopped serving just to watch) which means there are at least two stories that need telling. 

The demon is the first that need be understood. Crowley had recognised what his feelings were a long time ago, at least one thousand years, and had fought against them for at least another 500 years or so after that. As a resident of Hell and professional sinner (he’d had business cards at one point) he had been comfortable enough with all of the  _ lust _ . This was his area, after all. He had never really understood it, mind you, however his job was to do, not to understand. Besides, he’d spent his entire existence watching humanity sell their souls for the strangest of beings ( _ honestly, Rasputin? _ ) and so he’d learnt to accept his own urges at the sight of his angelic counterpart. Not that acceptance meant he was happy with it all. Crowley had to take a century long sleep just to get over not only the sight of Aziraphale in those absurd 18th Century ruffs, but just how much he despised himself for being so attracted to the sight. He forced himself to look away whenever they went to dinner should the angel choose anything even remotely suggestively (and remember, of course, as a demon, it was Crowley’s job to know exactly every food that could be used to provide even the observer with even the most minor of lustful thoughts). They had once had an incredibly awkward museum visit together (at Aziraphale’s suggestion, naturally) when the demon suddenly found himself quite unable to walk any further after noticing a small statue of an angel with a body quite how he’d often imagined his companion to possess, rounded with ample place for the demon to leave his mark, to make the angel his, and he’d had to sit down, one leg folded uncomfortably across the other until he was quite fit once more for such a public place (he was a demon, not a degenerate). 

The other feelings however, they had been much harder to accept, for many a reason. The first was quite simply biology. Could demons feel... _ that _ ? It wasn’t his fault he’d struggled so much to understand it all, it was just the demonic vocabulary was really quite limited. Demons talked about love, of course, rather frequently, but never really in the way he heard humanity talk about it. Demons might, say, love  _ torture _ or  _ mass executions _ . But the most friendly relationship demons developed amongst themselves was limited to not threatening each other in passing conversation and, even then, it was something not seen often. Could Crowley really blame himself for not recognising  _ love _ when he felt it? It felt uncomfortable, it caused him countless sleep nights, he’d have lost his appetite if he’d possessed one to begin with. And to feel it when the angel did the most simple and ridiculous of things? A sudden burst when he complained about any form of modern music (modern meaning it was composed after the mid 18th Century), when he insisted on bringing bread to feed the already oversized ducks in St James’ Park and dutifully doing so despite their disinterest in food from anyone not wearing some form of trenchcoat, even when he would sometimes overly hint to Crowley that he wanted him to leave the bookshop early so he could return to some new manuscript or ancient scroll he’d purchased. It caused the demon such complete and utter distress in just how... _ warm _ it made him feel.

And if Crowley attempted later to explain exactly what happened in the bar in that moment, it would have been the sudden overwhelming realisation that one thousand years is more than long enough to have feelings for a man (well, man-shaped angel) and be too much of a coward to do a thing about them, especially as said man was stood beside him, the smile he (regrettably)  _ loved best _ on his face and if Crowley didn’t do something about these feelings in this second, he could very possibly never have the chance again. So he kissed him, ready to ignore the rest of eternity and of course the entire room if he could just have this  _ one _ moment. And such one moment he could have lived with until with dawning horror he became aware that Aziraphale was not kissing him back, his lips pressed shocked against his own, and Crowley pulled back and left before the shame burned visibly on his cheeks.

* * *

 

Aziraphale had been experiencing an unusual and, dare he say it, confusing evening with his hellish companion. But then, such emotions were not new to him in the presence of the demon. He couldn’t say when they began but, if asked for a rough date, he’d have answered 26th May 1674. Nothing particularly thrilling had occurred, but he’d felt himself blush a deeper shade of pink (practically fuschia, he would insist) when Crowley’s hand had just grazed his as they had simultaneously reached for a shared bottle of vintage red wine.  He remembered the demon distinctly removing his hand with a murmured apology, and Aziraphale stammering over his own, yet caring more about the sudden burst of... _ something _ ....that he experienced in his chest. He caught himself thinking of the demon more often, whilst doing the most mundane of things, wishing for his company if just to pass the time.  But is that not what friendship was? The overwhelming need for their presence, for no reason than just to have them close? Angels didn’t really have friends, he’d realised once. Not in the Ineffable Plan, perhaps. Or perhaps it was because of the existence of such a Plan that angels could never make such friends. Every angel wanted to play their part, very few angels were willing to share. But then, he’d found himself hoping increasingly to see Crowley’s face, peering amongst crowds before he realised he was doing so, and perhaps that was not quite what friendship was at all. Perhaps that was something different.

And now all these bubbling feelings in his stomach as he saw the glances that passed over his companion from the eyes of men that he could only describe as  _ hungry _ . Aziraphale wanted almost to jump in front of Crowley, protect him from such stares that sought to devour without touch. Was that friendship? He felt his chest tighten and his throat constrict with every pair of eyes that seemed to travel down the length of his friend’s body, half-smile on their lips. He did not notice any similar looks pass his way. Was this  _ envy?  _ Aziraphale had felt envy very few times in his life, the greatest negative emotions that plagued him tending to be anxiety based, and he struggled greatly to understand why he would be envious of the admiring gaze of human men. In fact, he fully recognised why this was the case. Of the two, Crowley had chosen a human form far more traditionally pleasing to the human eye, cheekbones and styled hair, hips that moved with rhythmic swagger, long fingers that ran gracefully over surfaces, that brushed carefully across the skin…

_ Oh dear Lord _ . 

If you asked Aziraphale at what precise moment he realised exactly what he had been feeling for nearly 500 years, he would have said it was that single moment on a cheap karaoke stage. That all it seemed to take him was the stare of the crowd, present even if he couldn’t himself quite make them out, as he sang a song chosen perfectly for him by a demon it seemed who may have understood him far greater than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. He’d felt himself turn as the other man approached him and, as if able to read his mind, kissed him in front of the entire bar, Heaven and Hell both be damned. It wasn’t until Crowley stepped back, a look of pale horror on his face, and turned away that Aziraphale realised in the complete euphoria of his sudden epiphany he had entirely failed to kiss him back. 

‘Crowley. Wait. Crowley.’

* * *

 

And for argument’s sake, to cover all bases, should the bar staff ever be asked to explain exactly what they had witnessed, they would probably summarise it as so:

‘The tall guy with the glasses on kissed the short guy with the weird clothes, before running straight out of the bar, taking one of our better wine glasses as well.’


	4. Not for Lack of Want

**Not for Lack of Want**

‘Crowley. Crowley, wait for me.’ The demon was surprisingly quick, something helped no doubt by his legs being significantly longer than Aziraphale’s, whilst perfectly reasonable and average amongst human men, stouter limbs. He had followed him outside, the night darker now and his head spinning slightly, only partially due to the alcohol he felt. His companion was already slinking off into the shadow. ‘Crowley, wait.’

Despite what he felt were the demon’s best efforts to ignore him, he saw his head twist distinctly at the sound of the angel’s voice, and Aziraphale felt himself grow sterner. ‘Crowley, you foul fiend of Hell, you stop when I command.’

Impolite perhaps, but his words that the desired effect. The taller figure halted, turning with a frown. ‘No need to quite be so personal, angel.’

‘I only said it to make you listen to me.’ He caught up finally, his brows deep in furrowed concern. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

‘Mayfair is the opposite direction.’

‘Fine. A walk then.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to talk?’ His voice dropped to what could only be considered an obscenely loud stage whisper, audible from at least a street away. ‘You kissed me, Crowley.’

‘Oh, did I? I could hardly remember.’ 

Sarcasm was a dangerous game with Aziraphale, the wittiest of Crowley’s replies lost to him and his deeply rooted sincerity. This time, however, he was not so fooled. ‘Well, do you not think it’s something to be talked about, my dear?’

‘Don’t.’ 

‘Well, do you not think so?’

‘I was drunk, let’s both leave it at that, yeah?’ He once more turned to leave but found the angel’s hand on his arm.

‘You have been far more drunk before.’

He was frustratingly and heart-racingly concerned, something that only fanned the flames of humiliation that currently burnt in the demon’s chest. ‘Call it Hellish curiosity, then. Call it what you want. I’m going home.’

He was already walking away, leaving Aziraphale stood with an insulted scowl, as though the demon’s departure was a personal affront. He recovered himself in a moment or two. ‘Crowley, you can’t just saunter into the night and pretend that everything has been resolved. You cannot just leave me over this.’

It was a sight to behold, the demon striding ahead, barely visible amongst the shadows of the dark, followed by the much more flustered angel in almost glistening white, calling after him in a voice both desperately concerned and desperately annoyed. It was unfortunately a sight that attracted the attention of rather the wrong people. 

‘Go on, faggot, catch your boyfriend. Fucking faggots.’

‘Run you queer.’

‘We’d fucking deck you, fucking faggots.’

They were nobodies, the people whom Aziraphale would actually (though he’d never  _ really _ admit it to himself) have rather liked the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t to have taken with it. The people who made him (only slightly and really only occasionally) regret all of the miracles he performed for humanity. But they were nobodies, after all, unimportant compared to the demon still ahead of him. 

‘I think there’s a misunderstanding. No matter. Have a good evening.’ He felt himself call across the road before he recognised what he was doing. He even raised a hand as if in a farewell gesture.  _ Curses on his angelic nature _ , he cringed (totally incorrectly thought, also, no other angel was anywhere near so unnecessarily polite, this was all just Aziraphale). He watched as the men’s expressions shifted uncomfortably.

‘Are you talking to us, faggot?’

‘He is, the fucking queer.’

They had begun to walk forward, arms swinging like the rather overgrown gorillas they were presenting themselves as (insulting, recognisably, to the wondrous intelligence of actual gorillas). Aziraphale felt an uneasy droplet of sweat begun to trickle down his back, and he glanced back at his companion, who had stopped still ahead. And then Aziraphale missed what happened. Even with celestial intelligence paired with an angel’s ability to pay attention to the most minute of details at all angles and all hours, he missed what happened. But he saw Crowley ahead of him one moment, and the next the demon was across the road, and one of the men was on the floor, the sharp point of Crowley’s toe being driven repeatedly into his ribs.

‘Say it to my face. Say it TO MY FACE.’ 

His voice was a demonic roar, growled but manic. The man was howling on the floor, pain relentless. He seemed to glow with rage, in one moment an avenging angel once more.

‘CROWLEY.’ The angel’s shout was enough to distract him, his distraction long enough to allow the man to scramble to his feet, to run pitifully from the demon, whose glasses had long been lost and whose yellow eyes seared into their retreating figures. Aziraphale ran across the road in wild panic, the only person grateful in London for roadworks in that one moment preventing his death at the hands of multiple erratic city taxi-drivers. The demon seemed to slump as he approached, his shoulders sagging. His companion only noticed the crimson smear across his face as he grew closer. ‘My dear, you’re bleeding.’

The serpent touched his face gingerly and brought his fingers away with a deep frown as he noticed the scarlet on their tips. ‘One of the bastards got a punch in.’

‘Let me take you home, my dear,’ he murmured, placing a hand softly on the demon’s back. He barely felt him bristle against the touch. ‘Soho is only minutes away.’

‘I can drive. I have the Bentley.’

‘You can’t drive. You’re drunk, and…’ The word he wanted to say was  _ upset _ but he felt that to do so would cause Crowley to sprint as quickly into the night as his lanky legs would carry him, regardless of the obscenely tight jeans, and his inability to stand without swaying. ‘Drunk. You’re drunk.’

He mumbled, slurring, ‘vvv...driven...fore.’

‘Stay at mine tonight. Let me walk you home.’

* * *

 

The demon seemed to stumble through the door held open for him by his angelic counterpart, it taking far more effort than he liked to not just collapse in a drunken heap on the floor and sleep for the next decade. He blinked rapidly in the bright lights whilst Aziraphale set about locking the doors behind them and pottering into the back room of the store. 

‘I’m making tea, Crowley. Will you take a cup?’ He had asked Crowley this same question over seven hundred times by this point in their 6,000 year friendship. He had  been met with the same answer each time. Though he did tell himself each time that the  _ next _ answer would be different.

‘No. I will take something stronger though.’ He followed him into the room, wrinkling his nose with a grimace. ‘Satan, this bloody hurts.’ He reached up to pinch at his nose with a further pained frown. ‘I think they broke my nose. They broke my bloody nose.’

The angel made a small gesture, and Crowley grunted in small surprise. He crinkled his nose again, this time painless. ‘Thanks.’ 

‘Now, Crowley.’ Aziraphale turned, offering out a glass of deep red wine that had seemingly materialised from the air, whilst he clutched his tea. ‘Do you think we should talk?’

His companion made an irritated grumble as he retreated back into the shopfront, flinging himself across one of Aziraphale’s preferred armchairs, his legs spread as he sprawled. The angel forced himself to look away, aware now why such a sight caused his heart to palpitate in his chest. ‘Nothing to talk about.’

‘I think there rather is. You just had your nose broken.’

'It’s sorted now.’ He reached up as if to adjust the glasses usually perched on the bridge of his nose. At their absence, he frowned. ‘Did I lose my glasses?’ He was talking far more to himself than Aziraphale, just muttering with the occasional flick of his hand. ‘That would have been a bit of a shock. My bloody glasses too? Eh, I have some in the car somewhere.’

The angel interrupted, clearly exasperated. ‘Forget your glasses. You had your nose broken for me, Crowley. You stepped in to defend me.’ 

‘Not the first time.’

‘What do you mean not the first...When else have you done that for me?’

‘You forgotten Paris, angel? Appreciate your head still on your shoulders? How about London, 1941? Walked on consecrated ground to save your perky little angel arse then.’ The demon gave a brief noncommittal shrug, taking a large swig from his glass. ‘Either of those slipped your mind?’

‘Well, no, of course not…’

‘I tried to save you from the Apocalypse at one point. Alpha Centauri and all that.’

‘Well yes…’

‘Not my fault you said no.’ He was easier to read without his glasses, the brief flash of pained memory reflected in yellowed jasper eyes sending a pang of agonising realisation straight to Aziraphale’s own chest. ‘You didn’t want to come.’

‘I refused not for lack of want, my dear. I wanted to come. I just couldn’t leave…’ He found himself glancing around in desperation, as if hoping for something to inspire the words he wished he could say. ‘I couldn’t leave humanity, not all by themselves, not during the Apocalypse.’

‘You’d have rather died with them than lived away with me.’

‘They’d have found us. Your lot. My lot. They’d have hunted us down eventually.’

‘Didn’t mean we couldn’t have tried.’ 

‘To what end? Why does all of this matter so much to you? Alpha Centauri? Running away? Why does it all matter?’

‘Why does it all matter…?’ The demon repeated, as if the question itself was below the intellect he expected from his companion (which was already, admittedly, pretty shaky). ‘Why does it…? For this.’

He pushed himself out of the chair, standing unsteadily. He reached for the angel for the second time that night, pulling him forward with a tug of his tie (ignoring the angel’s murmurs over the expense) and once more kissing him full on the mouth. He let go when, once more, the kiss was unreturned. 

‘That’s why Alpha Centauri matters to me. That’s why running away matters to me. Why I stepped in tonight. Why I would step in again, every single time.’ He hesitated now, the next part of this speech very clearly on the tip of his once forked tongue but he struggled clearly with the exact words. They were the words that, for a demon, had to be accompanied by an aggressively dramatic eye-roll and usually a sharp cackle. It took all willpower to force these instincts down. ‘I love you, angel. Does that make sense to you? I love you. I’ve loved you for centuries. Now throw me out of here so I can return home and sleep for a century and…’

‘I love you,’ Aziraphale said, the words falling from his mouth, blue eyes wide and sincere. ‘My dear, I’ve loved you so long and never quite realised.’

‘Don’t, angel,' he whispered, almost hissed. 'Don’t say things like that. I’m not talking about your beautiful, celestial,  _ we’re all God’s creatures and all deserving of love _ bullshit.’ It was a scarily accurate imitation of Aziraphale’s voice from the demon’s mouth. ‘I’m talking about demonic, Hellish, burning me inside and out to have you this close love. Possessive and jealous and dripping in carnal sin love. Love that’s laced with venom and lust. A demon’s love. You can’t feel a demon’s love.’

He remembered the churning of his stomach at the men’s eyes on Crowley’s body, the heat in his cheeks at Crowley’s kiss on his lips. He stammered. ‘I think I can. If that is what a demon’s love is, then I guess I must have fallen enough to feel it.’

‘Prove it.’ He had issued the order with no expectation of it being fulfilled. Crowley enjoyed being proved wrong. For the angel this time reached for him, a hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer, and he kissed him with a soft moan. He kissed him open-mouthed, whilst his hands explored his body, stroking along his cheekbone with a firm thumb, across his chest to feel his body beneath his thin shirt. Aziraphale froze only momentarily as the demon’s hands moved lower, fingers slipping below the waistband of his trousers, before he returned the movement to a hiss of appreciative frustration.

* * *

 

The shop’s hours were far more erratic in the days that followed. In fact, the shop remained totally closed for the following three days. No-one could report on seeing the bookseller, or his taller, lankier friend either, although there were some strange sounds reported from one of the back rooms.


End file.
